“What color do you prefer, Caro?” her grandfather asked.
It was difficult to decide among so many pretty ones, and she hung over them with a finger on her lip and an expression of great earnestness on her face.
“The pink is lovely—and so is the blue, only not quite so pretty,—and the green, and—yes I like the violet too—”
“We’ll have to take one of each, I see,” said the president; and this greatly simplified the matter. Six candles were selected—blue, pink, green, red, violet and yellow, and these were done up in a white paper parcel and handed to Caro.
“Now grandpa, what are we going to do with them?” she asked when they were on the street again.
“That is a secret.”
Caro gave a little jump of excitement. “I love secrets;” “Please tell me what it is.”
“Then it wouldn’t be a secret any longer.”
“But—two people can know a secret, and I promise truly, bluely, I’ll not tell.”
“I’ll see about it when we get home,” her grandfather replied, thereby causing her to be in such a flutter of anticipation that as he told her, he might as well have tried to keep step with a yellow butterfly.